


Bavarian Rhapsody

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beer, Boys Kissing, Boys in Skirts, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Humor, M/M, Oktoberfest, dirndls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4976638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Camelot's annual Bavarian Oktoberfest. Arthur loses a bet and has to wear a dirndl and serve beer. Luckily, his similarly clad co-worker, Merlin, is available to show him the ropes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bavarian Rhapsody

**Author's Note:**

> A variant on [this delicious prompt](http://merlin-writers.livejournal.com/193966.html?thread=2346414#t2346414) for the merlin-writers October theme
> 
> With thanks to Merlocked18 for help with the title.
> 
> Update!!! The wonderful, talented, glorious Merlocked18 has created some INCREDIBLE art pieces, inspired by this little tale. Please, please, please, don't walk, RUN, to leave appreciation for Merls at the heatrdroppingly gorgeous confection that is [Arthur with pigtails](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4991299) and, to follow up, drool at the deliciousness of [Merlin's delightful dirndl](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4985437) MERLS YOU ARE AMEZZZIN OK !!!

“Hello, ladies! We have a couple of new girls joining us today.” Gwen frowned at the girl who had broken out into giggles behind her hand. “I want you to welcome Arthur. I do like your red pompoms, Arthur.”

Inwardly cursing his sister, Morgana, who had chosen his outfit, amid, as he recalled, much cackling, Arthur rolled his eyes. He wasn’t the only one wearing slippers with pom-poms on. But his were the only ones that were that particular shade of red. A very fine colour, but it did stand out rather. It was all Morgana's fault, as usual, and she had done it deliberately, of course she had.

It was Camelot University’s annual Oktoberfest, and as a result of a poor piece of judgment involving rather a lot of beer and an ill-timed bet, Arthur had been dragged into waiting at tables. In a dirndl. Bloody Gwaine and his uncanny ability to predict the outcome of rugby matches. Luckily, Gwen was a friend of Morgana's, and had managed to secure for him a shift. Otherwise, even more humiliating forfeits would have ensued.

“Thank you,” said Arthur, trying not to sound too mutinous. He flexed his shoulders in what he hoped came across as a manly way. Damn, but this was awkward. Apart from anything else, as rugby team captain he was used to being the one that dished out the orders, not standing around waiting to be told. And he couldn't help thinking that the blond pigtails were a bit over the top.

“I wouldn’t do all that that, ahem, arm waving, if I were you, Arthur,” said one of the girls, who he recognised as Elena. She eyed his bodice, fastened across his chest, with seeming approval. “You don’t want to rip it. It’s far too pretty to ruin.”

He was torn between feeling flattered by the praise and humiliated by the context. Settling for humiliated, he vowed to himself that when he finished this shift, he didn’t care whether the bet had been lost fair or square or not, he was actually going to kill Gwaine. No doubt about that. But probably not until he’d pinned him down and wrestled him into this oversized dirndl. And stuffed the damned pigtails into Gwaine’s oh-so-clever mouth.

“Merlin’s a bit late.” Gwen frowned at her checklist. “I’m not sure where… ah, there we are. Merlin, in here!”

Looking up, Arthur was expecting to see a girl, probably some sort of new-age hippy given their fanciful name. So it was with some surprise that he realised that it was another bloke, presumably caught out by a similar trick to the one that Gwaine had played on him.

As the two men exchanged sympathetic glances, Arthur couldn’t help noticing how well Merlin’s dirndl fitted him. The blouse was white, nipped by a laced bodice in shades of purple that brought out the pale cream of his skin and hinted at the swell of taut pectoral muscles. A full skirt in the same colours flared out about his hips, accentuating his tightly muscled waist. The apron was a paler purple, trimmed with some sort of a lacy fabric. With purple ribbons cascading about his unruly hair, he looked almost pretty. Scratch that, he looked incredibly pretty. Even the tufts of jet-black hair that erupted from the top of his bodice served only to enhance, rather than detract from, the overall effect.

He couldn't work out why Merlin looked so damned attractive in such a patently ridiculous get-up. It must have been something to do with those cheekbones. Having that sort of bone structure - well, he'd would look gorgeous in anything. Arthur had to admit it. Merlin was just his type.

Although he hadn’t really appreciated it before, he suddenly found himself feeling grateful to Morgana, who had not let him wear the tarty black leather thing that he’d found in the costume shop, but had instead insisted on getting something bespoke in his favourite shade of deep red and gold. Finding himself subconsciously smoothing down the embroidery on his apron, he stopped and crossed his arms.

“Sorry I’m late.” Merlin’s face was pink, whether with humiliation or the heat of effort scrambling to arrive at the tent, Arthur wasn’t sure. “My flatmate’s car broke down.”

“Right! Not to worry, Merlin, you can show Arthur, our new girl, the ropes.” Gwen ticked off something on her clipboard. “There’s a cash prize for the waitress that serves the largest number of beers. Remember, these steins are heavy. They carry a litre of beer each. When they’re full of beer, each one weighs over a kilo. I recommend carrying a maximum of three per hand at any one time. Pretzels two pounds fifty a pop, half-chickens five pounds...”

As she ran through the tariff, Arthur was doing calculations in his head. If these girls could carry three steins in each hand, surely he could manage four. Or even five. It’d be a doddle. The prize would be his, for sure.

“You must be Arthur. Lose a bet, did you?” Merlin was talking to him out of the corner of his mouth. “It’s normally how blokes like you get dragged into this.”

“What do you mean, blokes like me?” muttered Arthur back.

“You know. Burly, sporty types.” Merlin shrugged. His frame wasn’t exactly athletic, but he was lithe in a scrawny sort of way. His shrug was almost graceful.

“Shh, you two.” Gwen frowned at them. “Now, remember the customer is always right - up to a point. Any time when they start getting difficult, drunk or abusive, come and see me. All right? Five more minutes, and then we’re on.”

Arthur found himself sitting with Merlin while the rest of the girls broke into a storm of chatters.

“All right?” said Merlin. “Ready for your shift?”

“Yeah, but my bloody tights are killing me already,” admitted Arthur, reaching under his skirts to perform some critical adjustments. “How do girls wear these things every day?”

“Tell me about it.” Merlin grinned. “I suppose they don’t have the same *ahem* equipment that we do. I have to confess that I have got rid of them altogether. My flatmate draws seams on with eye-liner, like they did in the 1940s. It’s a bit less hot, but it’s still bloody uncomfy, though, isn’t it?”

“Not as uncomfortable as I’m going to feel when I go out there in front of the public.” Trying not to think too hard about what Merlin meant by _got rid of them altogether_ , Arthur nodded towards the door that led from the kitchen into the marquee where he knew hordes of drunken punters would be baying at him. “My whole rugby team have threatened to turn up.”

“Take my advice as an old timer. You just have to own it,” said Merlin. “Go out there as if you wear this shit every day and you’re proud of it. Call the bastards out on it if they take the piss. Take it from me, I’ve been here before.”

“You have?” Arthur couldn’t think of a single reason why any man would put himself through this more than once. “And you came back?”

“Yeah.” Merlin’s eyes creased in mirth. “The money’s good. You wouldn’t believe what the punters give you in tips if you flirt with them.”

“You flirt with the girls? Wearing this?” Aghast, Arthur brushed the fingers of one hand up and down his outfit.

“Oh yeah.” Fluttering his lashes, Merlin looked Arthur up and down, tongue darting out to moisten his lips. God, those lips. Plump and perfect, with a deep notch that gave Arthur ideas. _Obscene_ ideas. “And not just with the girls either.”

He winked.

Fuck. It was as if he could read Arthur’s mind. Arthur’s filthy, depraved mind. Which was even now wandering lower down, past Merlin’s skirts, and observing that Merlin’s legs were indeed bare. Pale cream in colour. And shaved. _Shaved,_ god-damnit.

To his chagrin, Arthur felt heat wash across his cheeks, just as the second hand on the clock above the counter reached the number twelve, and Gwen clapped her hands.

“All right, you lot! Time to sell some beer.”

When Merlin got up to walk out, Arthur couldn’t help noticing the seam that ran up the back of his ankles and disappeared behind his skirts just above the knee. Just how far up did it go? And did it smudge when he got sweaty? He could just imagine the mess he could make of that line, smearing it with his thumb until it kinked.

“Arthur?” Gwen’s disapproving look.

“Er. Right. Yeah. A bit hot.” Adjusting himself beneath his skirts, he hoped that the real reason for his sudden discomfort wasn’t too obvious.

  
  


*

Deliberately steering himself away from the trestle table where he could see Percival’s giant bulk looming large over a familiar-looking bunch of wide-framed rugby players, Arthur started his shift by taking orders from a group of girls. Most of whom were also dressed in dirndls.

“Ooh, hello darling,” said one, looking him up and down. Her apron wasn’t as nice as his, he couldn’t help noticing. “Nice pompoms! Know what I mean?” she nudged her companion, who sniggered.

He was just about to frown at her and threaten her with his pencil, when he spotted Merlin waving at him.

“Own it!” Merlin mouthed across the rowdy beer hall. Exaggeratedly miming preening and primping his own hairpiece, Merlin made a thumbs-up sign and turned back to his table.

Sighing, Arthur bit back his original retort and smoothed down his skirts while he fished around for something flirtatious to say.

“Hello. Erm. Beautiful,” he said, flicking one blond pigtail back behind his shoulder. “Nice. Erm. Lipstick. Bet you taste delicious.” He winked at her. “I’m Arthur, and I’m going to be looking after you this evening.”

“I wish,” she cackled. The rest of the girls round the table joined her in a frenzy of raucous guffaws. To his relief, they seemed to be laughing with him, not at him.

“Now, now,” he tapped his notebook and waggled his pencil at them all. “Naughty! Now about ordering some beer?” Striking an affected pose, he waited expectantly.

While the rest of the girls hooted in delight, the one he had originally spoken to smiled at him.

“You’re lovely,” she said. “Ten large beers please. And your phone number.”

“While I’m thinking about the last thing,” he said, returning her grin, “how about a pretzel?”

  
  


*

Later, he took a short break in the kitchen. He was relieved to find it empty apart from Gwen

“How’s it going?” she said, tilting her head to one side sympathetically. Her hair still looked perfect, despite the fact that she’d been lugging heavy steins around for the last two hours.  

“Fine,” said Arthur. “I’m actually quite enjoying it.” He was surprised to realise that he meant it. “I think I made a mistake, avoiding the rugby lot, though. Merlin’s making an absolute packet. I’ve only sold 165 beers. And I’m too bloody hot in these tights.” Checking around to see whether they were alone, he burrowed under his skirts to hoick said tights up.

“That’s why I normally go bare-legged. Like Merlin. I love your dirndl, by the way.” Gwen nudged him and arched an eyebrow. “I’m glad you didn’t go for something cheap and tacky!”

“Morgana wouldn’t let me.” He laughed, smoothing down the delicate, rich red-and-gold embroidery on the skirt. “You know what she’s like when there’s shopping involved. It cost an absolute fortune. I hope Gwaine’s happy.”

Merlin burst through the door at that point, in a flurry of purple skirts, wild eyes and gangly limbs.

“I’m pooped,” he said, running his hands through his hair so that it stuck up in great peaks, and slumping down on his chair. “What’s my total, Gwen?”

Gwen checked the till.

“Two hundred and twenty-four. Good effort. The others will struggle to beat that. I’m on a hundred and ninety-two, Elena’s the closest on two hundred and two.”

“That’s good. I need the money.” He looked exhausted. “Right now, though, what I need is a break.”

“I’ll serve your tables for a bit,” said Arthur, jumping to his feet as he saw his chance to increase his beer tally.

“Thanks, Arthur.” Merlin beamed at him. “You’re doing amazingly, by the way. Wait a second.” He stood up again. “Your ribbons are coming adrift.” Leaning forward, so close that Arthur could feel his breath against the exposed skin of his shoulder, Merlin fiddled with Arthur’s pigtail. “There. You look good enough to eat.”

They locked gazes for a moment while Arthur looked for a sign that Merlin was taking the piss, and failed to find one. He swallowed and licked his lip, wondering what Merlin was doing after his shift, and whether the it was obvious that he was still wondering how far up Merlin’s legs those obscene eyeliner tramlines went.

“Well.” He cleared his throat and looked away, trying to regain the shreds of his train of thought. “Wish me luck.”

“You’ll be fine,” said Merlin, sounding a little hoarse as he stepped away. Arthur tried not to follow the movement of his legs, and failed. “Just look out for the Mercia crowd on table 23. Elena’s already threatened to kick them out once for bottom-pinching. None of the girls will serve them any more.”

“It’s all right,” said Arthur. He was familiar with the group in question; their ringleader was a piggy-eyed bloke with a malevolent stare and beer stains on his lederhosen. “I won’t take any shit from those idiots.”

“That’s the spirit, Arthur,” said Gwen. “Oh, by the way, on your way out, can you take drinks out for the band?”

“Sure.”

Was it his imagination, or was Merlin deliberately bunching up his skirt while he adjusted his petticoats? Arthur could see a creamy inner thigh peeping out, just above his knee. There was a _mole_. Right there. He stared at it, fascinated. As he watched, Merlin turned his foot out, so that the thin black line that ran up his leg was just visible.

“Arthur?” A steely tone entered Gwen’s voice.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Gratefully taking the seven steins - four in one hand, three in the other - Arthur reversed out through the swing-door into the tent.

*

As always at Oktoberfest, a local seven-piece brass band were playing. When Arthur emerged bearing gifts of beer and pretzels for the musicians, they were half way through a stirring arrangement of Queen’s _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , while the crowd sang along and, in Gwaine’s case, stood on the trestle tables playing air guitar.

Setting their drinks down on the stage with a nod to the lead trumpeter, a girl called Freya whom he vaguely knew from his Physics practicals, Arthur rejoined the melee in the tent. Trestle tables groaned with beer and chicken. Revellers held their glasses aloft, singing. merrily. All about them, the tent was bedecked with hops and brewery signs. It was a festive sight.

Arthur sashayed along the aisles to the tables that Merlin had previously been serving, subconsciously mimicking the way that Merlin had swung his hips as he glided along the aisles. As he walked, he blew kisses to the catcallers and wolf-whistlers from Percival and Gwaine’’s table. Although he was completely sober, the surge of power that he felt at the crowd’s reactions felt as intoxicating as any beer. He was pink-cheeked and flustered by the time he arrived at the table where the Mercia crowd had been creating trouble.

“Good evening gentlemen,” he said. “”I’m Arthur. May I take your order?”

“About bloody time.” Arthur recognised the bloke’s belligerent voice. It was Valiant Mellor, an obnoxious scrum half who played for Mercia’s second team. “No-one’s asked us for bloody hours. We’re dying of thirst ‘ere!”

“And whose bloody fault is that, Val, you tosser?” said another member of the Mercia party. “That gorgeous blonde was right fit, and you went and bloody chased her away by being a twat.”

“I’d have thought this one was more your type, Cenred, you bloody poof.” Val looked Arthur up and down with a leer. “What's her name again? _Arthurina?_   She has got a nice arse though, I’ll give you that.”

Arthur had just started to count to ten in his head in German to avoid retaliating, when he felt a sharp pain on his rump, and realised that the idiot Val had actually dared to pinch him.

Red was in many ways his favourite colour. It was red that he saw now. And, as the canniest fly-half the Camelot University rugby union team had ever seen, he wasn’t slow off the mark either. Before Val had time to say _Hold on, I didn’t mean it,_ Arthur had him bent over the table, one arm twisted up behind his back.

"Ow! Lemme go!" said Val. "Ow! That hurts! I was only having a laugh!"

“You, my friend, are a sexist, low-life neanderthal,” growled Arthur, “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave this tent now, and never come back. Because over there are my friends - the entire Camelot Rugby Club front row in fact, renowned for their ability to steamroller over the opposition when scoring tries.” He nodded across the room. Percival, Gwaine, Leon, Elyan, and Lancelot were beginning to step down from their seats, enquiring looks on their faces as they looked across, as if waiting for Arthur’s signal. He knew he could rely on them. “And they’re a nasty bunch. They don’t know fear or pain. Do you understand what I’m saying.”

“Are you threatening me?” said Val, sounding rather nasal with his nose being rubbed hard into a gingham-covered trestle table.

“I don’t make threats. I make promises.” Looking round at concerned faces at the next table, Arthur released Val and smiled at him. Menacingly, of course. “You may leave now.”

“C’mon, Val. Let’s bugger off. This place is boring. And they’re not going to serve us any more beer here anyway.” Cenred and his other companions started pulling on their jackets.

From the claps and cheers that greeted the sorry bunch who shuffled out of the tent, this was a popular development. Shrugging, Arthur felt his face colour a little as he received the congratulatory handshakes, not to mention cash tips, from the other occupants of the neighbouring tables.

“They were horrible, kept making loud comments about my boobs,” said one girl, thrusting a tenner into his hands. “Here. Go and have a couple of beers on me.”

“And me,” said another girl, fluttering her eyelashes and digging around in her purse. “That one pinched my bum. My boyfriend wanted to hit him, but I told him that it wasn’t worth getting into a fight over.”

“It was great, what you did,” said the bloke at her side, tucking a twenty-quid note into Arthur’s bodice. “Thanks for that. Can you get us a round of beers to celebrate? We need seven.”

“It was nothing, really,” said Arthur, feeling thoroughly undeserving as he high-fived and air-kissed his way back to the kitchen amid cheers and applause. And the best thing about it, he had to admit, was the expression of shining admiration on Merlin’s face as he approached the kitchen door, a fistful of tenners in one hand and a bunch of orders for beer in the other.

“Well done,” said Merlin. He spoke quietly, but Arthur had no trouble hearing him above the din.

“Thanks.” Feeling reckless and slightly giddy, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to lean forward and kiss a surprised-looking Merlin full on those plump, tantalising lips. “If you want to thank me properly, how about dinner?”

“Dressed like this?” A mischievous smile played around Merlin’s eyes as he leaned forward to kiss Arthur back. And oh! The soft, warm feeling of those full lips against Arthur’s mouth. It made him want more, so much more. But now was not the time and place - as he was reminded the howls of appreciative laughter and ripple of applause that surrounded them.

“Get a room!” someone inevitably shouted.

“No, no, don’t stop,” yelled another, enthusiastic and female voice.

“No. In answer two your question. Not necessarily dressed like this.” Arthur laughed. “Although I have to confess I’m rather intrigued by your painted-on tights.”

“Hmm.” Merlin’s reply was muffled by their enthusiastic kissing.

Behind him, the band struck up Queen’s _Don’t stop me now_.

And later, much later, when the band had packed up and gone, and the tables had been taken down, he walked Merlin home through the quiet late-night streets with the stars shining down on their sweat-drenched bodices.

And even later, as he pressed Merlin’s still-clad frame onto his bed, spreading eyeliner across the back of Merlin’s thighs with his splayed fingers, he thought his heart might leap out of his rib-cage.

*END*

  
  
  



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